As The Storm Breaks
by CupcakeBean
Summary: Outside, the storm rages, but it's nothing compared to the one that's just begun indoors. Written for the prompt "Booth/Brennan, wet shirts" at the bitesize bones comment fic meme on LJ.


**Disclaimer**: This story was written for entertainment purposes only and no copyright infringement was intended.

…

**As The Storm Breaks**

As the summer storm finally breaks, they start to run, the fat droplets of water striking their bodies like tiny missiles. Her girlish shrieks, barely audible over the noisy rain and occasional thunder, stop him in his tracks. Shielding his eyes from the downpour, he grabs blindly for her hand and, gripping it tightly, pulls her quickly toward the building. Breathless and drenched, they burst through his apartment door minutes later.

"Damn it, Bones," he curses, tossing his keys carelessly on a table near the door and kicking off his shoes, "You jinxed us!"

"There's no such thing as a jinx," she protests, removing her own shoes. "Besides, this storm was obviously going to break eventually."

"Then explain to me why it started the _instant_ you said, 'I think it might rain, Booth'. And why it seems to be letting up, now that we're inside?"

She opens her mouth, prepared to launch into an explanation of cumulonimbus clouds and precipitation until she realizes he's teasing her. His mouth twists into an affectionate grin and his eyes twinkle, knowing she's caught on. She tries to be annoyed and fails miserably, giving him a punch on the arm and a mock scowl.

"Ow! You know, you keep hitting me like that, I'm gonna start questioning my manhood," he quips, rubbing his bicep.

She smirks. "I doubt you've ever questioned your manhood, Booth." She gestures at his belt buckle.

He looks down and tilts the garish buckle upwards. "You don't like Cocky?"

"Of course I like it. I wouldn't have replaced the one you lost if I didn't like it."

His face brightens and he smiles, inordinately pleased by her admission. "Let me get some towels. You're drippin' all over my floor." He darts out of reach, just as she takes another good-natured swing at him.

When he returns, she has taken off her jacket and let down her hair, the long tendrils already starting to curl in that way he likes. He wants to comb through the damp tangles with his fingers, but instead, tosses her a fluffy towel. They both dry off, attempting to keep the rainwater confined to the foyer.

As they silently blot themselves, he tries not to notice the way her soaked blouse clings to her figure. He _tries_ not to notice… He's a gentleman, after all. But damn it, he's a guy too. And there are some things a guy can't help but notice.

There are things a girl can't help but notice too. Like a well-proportioned man in a wet T-shirt, toweling dry in front of you. As hard as she tries to keep her eyes to herself, they seem to be drawn like magnets to his chiseled chest and arms. Usually, she's able to overlook his obvious physical appeal, but his shirt acts like a spotlight, sticking to his muscles and leaving very little to the imagination.

She watches him swipe at his face, giggling as he shakes his head and sends a spray of water flying. He grins back, surprised and emboldened by the way her eyes rake over him, and he allows himself to do the same. He hopes she likes what she sees, because he _definitely_ likes what he's looking at. His appreciative gaze catches the slight shiver that suddenly overtakes her.

"Geez, Bones," he scolds, taking a step toward her. "You need to dry off better! I'm not letting you freeze to death on my watch."

He flips his towel into the air, settling it gently across her shoulders. As he starts thinking about which of his shirts he'll give her—_Which one is the warmest? Softest? Freshly washed?_—he rubs her shoulders and arms vigorously with the towel.

Not for the first time, Brennan is touched by his concern for her. She's never had someone who _cares_ so much, and quite honestly, it perplexes her. She's been on her own most of her life and, as much as she values her independence, it's nice to have someone looking out for you.

Gradually, Booth's mind starts to register little things like the smell of her shampoo and her cool breath tickling his neck. He's suddenly very _aware_ of her and of just how intently she's studying him. He's used to her watching him, assessing and analyzing, but this is different. There's a tenderness in her face now, an openness that he doesn't see nearly enough. Distracted, his hands begin to slow, his purposeful touch unconsciously turning into a soft caress.

She feels positively hypnotized by what he's doing to her. His palms slide up and down her arms slowly, languorously, now warming her in a different way. His eyes seem to darken a shade or two, which her logical mind tells her is impossible. That thought does nothing to slow her racing pulse or still the slight trembling that's begun in her knees. Instinctively, she knows he's thinking about kissing her and in the past, this would have terrified her. But right now, in this moment? There's nothing in the world she wants more. She only hopes he can see it in her face.

He can.

As he closes the short distance between them and his lips finally meet hers, every doubt he's ever had about the two of them vanishes. There is something so perfect in the way she feels in his arms, the way she responds so willingly to his kiss. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he dizzily wonders if he'll ever be able to _stop_ kissing her, now that he's started.

Stopping is not even a consideration in her mind. Her hands map the contours of his broad chest, eventually finding their way to his nape and pulling him closer. He absently releases the towel and it slides to the floor, freeing his hands to play with the hem of her shirt, his fingers slipping underneath to tease her soft skin. She takes his cue and begins to fumble with the buttons.

He pulls away in exasperation. "Damn it woman! Would you let me do that?" Swatting at her hands, he takes over removing the offending garment. It lands on the hardwood floor with a wet thwack.

"Yours is still damp too," she murmurs against his lips. He laughs heartily and together they peel off his T-shirt.

And then there's more kissing and touching and smiling—lots of smiling—as they make their way to the bedroom. From there, it's racing hearts and heavy breathing, gentle caresses and whispered endearments. It's everything they'd ever imagined it could be, and so much more. But they aren't thinking about that, not yet. Now, all conscious thought is lost to the sensations: hot and cold, hard and soft, wet and dry.

Outside, the storm rages, but it's nothing compared to the one that's just begun indoors.


End file.
